by Stephanie J. Blake
When I was little, it seemed it took forever for Christmas to arrive. My father is crazy for Christmas and always made it magical. As we counted down the days, I would search the house for hidden gifts whenever my parents were out. They were very good at hiding presents, and I never had an inkling that Santa wasn't real. We never even saw rolls of wrapping paper!
Every Christmas Eve, after we had slept for a few hours, my brother would wake me up. "Santa came," he would whisper. We would creep from our rooms, and huddle on the stairs, sharing a blanket, marveling at the lights of our Christmas tree and counting all the presents, peeking inside our stockings. We would sit patiently by the tree, waiting for the dark sky to give way to morning, so we could wake up our parents.
Somehow, my father always knew what I wanted.
Now that I'm a grown up, I'm finding it's better to give than to receive. Still, I've been given a few precious writing gifts this year.
1. A new laptop!
2. A patient editor who helped me get my revisions just right.
3. Three smart authors who jumped at the chance to read my book and give a blurb.
All I really want for Christmas is a peek at my cover! (And a Kindle Fire).